


man on the wall (man in the dark)

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Shuri Friendship, Identity Porn, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Secret Identity, Spider-Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: In another version of Brooklyn, in an uncanny New York City, on an earth just on the edge of unfamiliar, Bucky Barnes—a mid-ranking engineer in Stark Industries’ brand-new department of prosthetics and medical robotics—should be coming home from work. But along comes a spider, and, unwittingly, his life goes upside-down. Quite literally.(or: a spider-bucky/into the spider-verse au.)





	man on the wall (man in the dark)

In another version of Brooklyn, in an uncanny New York City, on an earth _just_ on the edge of unfamiliar, Bucky Barnes—a mid-ranking engineer in Stark Industries’ brand-new department of prosthetics and medical robotics—should be coming home from work.

He _should_ be sitting on the couch with Steve Rogers, his best friend and roommate, watching old movies or reruns of How It’s Made or some trash television drama, sharing a family-sized order of lo mein from the place across the street while they take the piss out of whatever it is on-screen.

He _should_ be trying hard not to let Steve realize that he thinks of it as a date, that he considers Thursday nights their “date night.” He _should_ be waffling between telling Steve’s he’s loved him since the day they met almost two decades ago and swallowing that urge, like he always does, like he knows he always will.

He should be _home._

But he’s not. Instead, as he’s been doing increasingly-frequently these days, Bucky is staying late at the office, working overtime, working hard, and working alone.

Everyone else had gone home hours ago. Even Shuri, the only other person working on the same project—a hyper-durable prosthetic arm that interfaced with the user’s nervous system, codenamed, by Stark himself, the Ziggy Stardust project—had said her good nights long before. The hours drag on as Bucky continues working, jumping between checking and double-checking his code and running tests of the code on the prototype they’ve managed to build. He’s made two pots of fancy dark roast from the workshop coffee pot so far. It’s just as he’s about to go out for more coffee that Bucky notices something on his desk, something unfamiliar, and something far more interesting than coffee: 

A spider.

Not just any spider. A spider about the size of his palm.

“Oh. Hi,” Bucky says, rolling his chair over a little bit closer.

The spider does not skitter off, and Bucky can _swear_ he sees it sizing him up. It’s a pretty little thing—a wolf spider, probably, but far more black than brown. It’s nice, seeing something organic and _alive_ after staring at nothing but cold steel and rows and rows of digital code.

Bucky grabs his tumbler—clean, clear, and a perfect transport container for getting a lost little spider home—and angles it just _so,_ letting the spider crawl up into its chamber before he slides the lid closed, carefully, slowly. “Let’s get you outta here, buddy. Stark Industries is no place for a guy like you.”

As Bucky crosses the workshop, making his way to the balcony, he can see the spider looking up at him, its big, dark eyes shining in the low light. He’s always liked spiders, ever since he was young. This one is cute, even. But something—maybe his worse instincts—is screaming in the back of his head that he shouldn’t be doing this; something is screaming that he’s _not safe._

Bucky shakes it off. It’s probably just his regular anxiety. That, and all the caffeine.

“Alright,” Bucky says to the spider, once he’s made it onto the balcony. Manhattan is bustling and glowing underneath him, and as he carefully, carefully lets the spider out of his tumbler, all Bucky wants to do is go home. “There you go.”

The spider crawls out, just as careful as Bucky was, but does not move beyond that. Instead, it continues to size Bucky up, practically frozen in its spot. Bucky, confused, moves to shoo it away, to let it know that it can go, when suddenly, it lunges at him, latching onto his hand and biting down, _hard._

“Fuck!” Bucky hisses, and he shakes the spider off his hand, dropping his tumbler in the process. “ _Fuck!”_

His hand burns, and Bucky begins feeling clammy and freezing and like his body is on fire, all at once. As he stumbles back to his desk to grab his phone and keys, he can feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, practically threatening to burst out of his chest. He knows he should stay calm. He knows that panicking spreads the venom more quickly. He knows that Stark Industries keeps med staff on hand 24/7.

That doesn’t help his panic. Not when he’s running through every disaster scenario in his head, not when he’s already lost one arm in an accident and he’s not ready to lose another one, not before the prosthetic he’s working on is confirmed to work, at the very least.

As he stumbles into the med clinic, feeling half-to-death, all Bucky can think is one singular, all-important thing: he should have been _home_.

**\---**

Everything after that is a haze. Bucky knows he manages to get home. He knows that Steve is still waiting up for him when he stumbles into their apartment, and that there’s a carton of leftover lo mein in the microwave for him. Bucky knows that he manages to change into a comfy t-shirt and boxers before he sinks into the warm comfort of his bed. But everything between that—everything that med staff said to him, everything on the ride over, everything that Steve said to him beyond _There’s food for you—_ is nothing but fuzz.

Bucky sleeps through the next day. And the day after that. And most of the day after that. When he finally wakes up in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday, Bucky’s sweat through his sheets, his entire body aches, and his chest feels far, far too tight.

The last of which, though, becomes clear enough once Bucky sits up and takes in his surroundings; it doesn’t take long, after Bucky is fully awake, to look down and realize—the shirt he’d gone to bed with, somehow, in his sleep, had become far, far too small for him.

“What the fuck—” he murmurs to himself, as he peels off the shirt, still sticky with sweat and, true to Bucky’s memory, still a men’s size medium. He looks down at his bare chest and, tentatively, touches his pecs, finding broad, unfamiliar muscle where there had so-recently been none. “What the _fuck._ ”

Bucky jumps out of his bed, confused and a little more than _slightly_ panicked—even more so, when he _actually_ rips the door off its hinges as he scrambles out of his room. Once in front of the mirror, his panic is only partially-assuaged. Good news is that the face gaping back at him is familiar. It’s his, down to the dimple in his chin and the freckles on his forehead.

Couldn’t say the same for _everything else._

His thick chest is still a surprise, as is the bicep he’s now sporting. Turning around in the mirror, he sees that his thighs have bulked up substantially _,_ looking like they were easily, regularly used for crushing men’s heads, and not—as he does for a living—sitting and writing code. And most surprisingly, most astoundingly, for the first time in his life, Bucky has _an ass._ He looks like a fitter— _definitely taller—_ version of himself, a version of himself that was just different enough to do a double-take. 

“What—what the _fuck_ —what is going _on_ ,” Bucky hisses, and he glances at his hand, just to make sure he’s really awake. It’s the same as when he went to bed, except—and this _really_ stood out to Bucky—there’s no evidence that he’d been bitten by a spider. Not even a bump. Not even the smallest hint of redness.

As he frantically Googles the terms “spider bite suddenly healed” and “why did i wake up looking different,” Bucky’s oncoming panic attack is stalled, snuffed out, when his phone chimes happily, vibrating pleasantly in his hand as a message from Steve comes in. 

> STEVE [3:12 PM]: Hey Buck, you finally awake? I’m getting lunch at Chipotle if you want me to get you something too

Bucky frantically types a response, trying hard not to do to his phone what he’d just done to the door.

> ME [3:15 PM]: Yeah I’m awake finally hahaha
> 
> ME [3:16 PM]: Also yeah lunch would be great, just a chicken burrito bowl thanks

Steve sends him a thumbs-up emoji in response. It seems almost sarcastic. Bucky affords himself exactly five minutes of panic in the bathroom before moving to panic in his bedroom, throwing on the baggiest, most comfortable clothing he owns, and trying to figure out _what the hell happened to him._

**\---**

Eventually, Bucky migrates to the couch, deciding to watch the news to see if there’s some sort of super-bug going around turning people into thicker, sexier versions of themselves. Nothing of the sort, although he _does_ find a documentary on wolf spiders on Netflix that he manages to finish before Steve comes home.

“Hey, Buck,” is what Steve says when he arrives back. He’s got a bag full of shitty imitation Mexican food and Bucky, all of a sudden, is acutely aware of how much he’s _starving._ “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m, uh—” Bucky starts. He’s painfully aware of his body, his posture, the clothes he’s picked out for himself. _Is Steve staring? Steve is staring._ He’s staring, Bucky realizes, because Bucky hasn’t said anything in what must have been a full minute. He swallows, putting on a calm, friendly smile. _Just like he always does._ “I’m, uh. Good. I’m doing good. Feeling a whole lot better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Steve says, taking their respective lunches out of that familiar, quirky brown paper bag. “Really worried me for a while, back there.”

“Well, I’m totally okay now, I think,” Bucky says, not at all suspiciously, as Steve hands him his lunch, and _Jesus, is he hungry._ “How’s work been?”

Steve furrows his eyebrows at Bucky as he takes a massive bite out of his burrito, but shrugs it off, literally, as he begins answering Bucky’s question while he chews. “Still the same. Fury’s still trying to get me on full-time, but Jameson’s not budging. Guess if they keep me freelancing, they don’t gotta pay me as much. Half the time I wonder if they’re gonna keep hiring me for jobs, given how much Nick and I are fighting with Jameson.”

And if that—Steve Rogers’ nasty habit of talking with his mouth open—was anything, it was an anchor for Bucky. He was awake, he was alive, and everything—save for his body having mutated in his sleep—is normal. It’s fine. For the first time since he woke up, Bucky doesn’t feel right on the edge of a panic attack. He feels, despite everything, _fine._

They eat their lunches together, Steve making enough conversation for the both of them, and only _sometimes_ glancing up at Bucky with worry. Eventually, Bucky brings up the door—not giving the _full_ details—and they both resolve to figure it out or call in their landlord to get it right. When they finish up, it’s far too soon for Bucky, but he throws away his trash and makes some excuse about needing to get some work done in his room, anyway.

“Hey,” Steve says as Bucky makes his leave, and the way he says it stops him dead in his tracks. 

“Yeah?”

“Is—” Steve starts, “Is everything okay?”

Bucky is silent for a moment, before putting on that same _everything is fine_ smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I—” Steve starts. He doesn’t seem satisfied, but he looks like he doesn’t want to start something, either. “I was just worried about you, after this weekend, is all.”

**\---**

A week and several nights’ worth of trial-and-error later, Bucky discovers the following things:

He has super-strength now. He’s also fast—faster than any human _should_ be. His night vision and distance vision have improved substantially, and though he doesn’t have any base metric, he _knows_ he’s probably capable of outperforming trained snipers. His feet and hands can cling to even the smoothest surfaces. His body heals extraordinarily-quickly. And, most surprising of all, in addition to his _regular_ anxiousness, that eerie spider gave him _super-anxiety,_ a predictive sense to help avoid danger. 

Now, _how_ the spider gave him these powers, Bucky couldn’t say. Even attributing them to the spider was just a hunch, at best. But there was one thing he _did_ know, something deep in his bones: he had to _do something._ His number was up, and it was his time to do something for his city. 

And maybe it was dumb. Hell, if he’d heard of someone else doing the same thing, he probably would have rolled his eyes at the idea of it. But after almost two decades of pulling Steve out of fights, after two decades of split lips and black eyes and trouble, all in the name of keeping vulnerable people safe, all in the name of doing what’s _right,_ Bucky couldn’t _not_ use what he’d been given for vigilante good. 

He manages to get body armor for himself, after some asking around. Working for Stark Industries had its downsides, but it also had its perks, like being able to buy body armor while on his lunch break, and no one batting an eye. Between that and stopping into surplus stores—never the same one, always buying things piecemeal—he manages to put together a getup, something that keeps him light, stealthy, and protected, all at the same time. It’s nothing flashy—just like Bucky’s regular wardrobe, it’s all-black, no-nonsense, and easily-replaceable—but every piece does its job, from the thick-but-breathable balaclava and his tactical-grade goggles, to his steel-toed combat boots and his tac jacket, light enough to throw on over the body armor _and_ the black turtleneck over that, but insulated enough to keep him warm even as an unseasonably-cold wind whips around the top of Stark Tower.

There’s _one thing,_ though, that he can’t replace. One thing he’s very, very careful in using: the arm.

The very arm he was working on when he got bitten. The very arm that he was hoping to field test, before, well. _Everything._ He would have to make a second arm, eventually, one to stay at Stark Industries while he was doing the vigilante beat. But for now, he had to settle for attaching and un-attaching the prototype every night.

First, superpowers, and now, self-experimentation. What was Bucky’s _life._

**\---**

There’s no field guide to the vigilante beat. There’s no sourcebook, no tutorials, no forum on Github about the best ways to go about approaching a certain thing. But even still, Bucky is surprised by how _natural_ it feels, following the shadows on rooftops, lurking around, keeping an eye out for anyone who needs help.

It’s slow, at first. Especially as he’s getting used to the arm. But even still, even despite a couple stumbles— _literal_ stumbles, in some cases, almost propelling himself off buildings—Bucky manages to settle into the persona of the anonymous watcher, the man on the wall, almost instantly.

The first action he stops—an armed robbery—should have terrified him to drop into. But as he _literally_ drops back to street-level, he reaches a state of calm, a state of focus, that he’s never felt before. He might have known how to fight beforehand, but now, the beats of a fight feel like his _natural state._ Within minutes, the aggressor is incapacitated, Bucky has his knife, and the victim—a young boy, no older and thirteen, on his way back from the corner store—has his wallet back.

“Sorry if I scared you,” Bucky says, crouching down to meet the kid at eye-level.

“It’s okay,” he says, still a little shaky. “What you did to that guy was awesome, though.”

“Thanks, kid. You want me to walk you home?”

“Nah, I think I’m fine now,” he says, though Bucky’s going to make sure he gets back safe, anyway.

“Okay. Just—try not to take shortcuts like that, anymore, okay?”

The kid nods, and is about to make his way off, but not before the kid turning around and calling out, “Hey, man, what’s your name?”

The name slips off Bucky’s tongue like it’s really his own: “Wolf-Spider.”

**\---**

It’s surprising how quickly Wolf-Spider becomes a local legend. After the first kid, there’s another few kids like that—similar circumstances, being places where they’re not supposed to be, late at night. One of those gets filmed and put on social media, and for a short time, the tag #WolfSpider is trending. Locally, at least. Things are quiet until one day, after very-publicly catching a serial stalker, Bucky comes to Stark Industries—to his _base—_ to find a report of himself on the local news.

Good thing, he thinks, as he detaches the arm from his shoulder socket, he’s good at hiding.

**\---**

Keeping Stark Industries as his base of operations works swimmingly, until it doesn’t.

Shuri says her good-nights, leaving Bucky alone in the workshop. He waits about fifteen minutes before he decides he’s safe—far shorter than he used to wait, but he’s fallen into a rhythm. Bucky manages to attach the arm, do a couple stretches, and practice wall-climbing to his favorite workout playlist, when—out of nowhere—there’s Shuri, staring up at him, looking _horrified._

_Fuck._

“What—” she stammers, “What are you doing.”

“I—” Bucky starts. He swallows. “What are _you_ doing.”

She frowns at him. “I asked you first.”

“I’m. Uh. Hanging out.”

She gives him a _look._

He smiles at her, hoping it’s _boyish_ and _charming_. She doesn’t seem swayed. Not in the least. “ _Punny_?”

“Yes,” Shuri says, deadpan, “But not the point.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, unsticking from the wall, and walking towards her. “In my defense, you said you were going home.”

“One, I forgot my phone in my desk, and two, that doesn’t make it better.”

“I mean,” Bucky starts, deflating a little. “I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah.” She says. “That’s the prototype for the Ziggy Stardust project, isn’t it.”

Bucky winces. Spiders from Mars. His life was becoming a parody of itself. “ _Really_ wish Stark hadn’t named it that.”

“Look, I don’t listen to colonizer music, so I agree, it shouldn’t have been named that to begin with, but more importantly—” Shuri starts, excitement starting to leak into her voice, “That’s the arm.”

“It indeed is.”

“You’re using it. To climb up building walls.”

“I also punch people with it,” Bucky says, carefully keeping to himself the fact that he’s _also_ choked people with it. Not to _death,_ obviously, but he recognizes how bad it sounds, to someone who wasn’t there.

“Well, okay, but I think the more important point here is—clearly, the arm works.”

Bucky lets out a long, steadied breath. “Yes. It does.”

Shuri stares at him a long time, her lips furrowed in that pout she made when she was thinking, when she was trying to crack a particularly-sticky problem for a project, before eventually breaking out into a smile, and saying something that Bucky could have only _prayed_ for: 

“I bet we can make it better.”

**\---**

Shuri takes to helping outfit Bucky’s Wolf-Spider suit like it’s her Sistine Chapel. Without the restrictions of Stark Industries’ design protocols and the ever-constant anxiety about final approval always falling to Stark—a notoriously picky, notoriously rude critic, especially of tech—she’s really able to soar. She’s the one who comes up with the idea for making web shooters. They’re almost as useful as his sixth sense—his _spider sense,_ they start calling it—although true to his namesake, Bucky doesn’t make it a habit to build nets and swing across buildings. They’re a team, the two of them, though Shuri, unlike Bucky, is smart enough to leave room for herself to claim plausible deniability.

“Unlike you,” she says to him the day after they finish the second arm, as they make their way back from getting celebratory burgers and milkshakes, “I’ve got contingency plans.”

Which, if anything spoke to the difference between the two of them, it was _that._

**\---**

With the second arm finished and so lightweight, Bucky starts keeping his suit—arm and all—in a duffel bag, kept secure with a biometric padlock, modified by Shuri and himself, of course. Keeping it in a duffel keeps in line with his cover—he can change into his suit almost anywhere, and keep everything close, _just in case._ He can explain the fact that he’s bulked up, even more from that first day, as sending more time working out. He’s getting the hang of the whole _double-life_ thing. He can roll with any surprises.

Surprises, including Steve throwing an impromptu celebration one night.

“You’re late again,” Steve says, once Bucky is through the door. Sam— _Sam!_ All the way from _D.C., Sam!_ —shakes his head at Bucky, looking at Bucky with an over-exaggerated frown.

“Nah, I was just trying to avoid _this guy,_ ” Bucky says, making his way over to the couch and embracing Sam in a tight hug. They give each other shit all the time, but it’s so good to see Sam. 

“Damn, Barnes,” Sam says, pulling back, “You’ve been hitting the gym hard since I last saw you, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” Bucky starts, and he glances over at Steve, who looks _very_ invested in his phone. Something sinks in Bucky’s stomach, at that, but he tries not to let it show. Instead, he just continues smiling at Sam, channeling all his energy into catching up with his second-closest—first closest, not including boys he’s fallen in love with—friend.

“No Natasha today?” Bucky asks, settling down next to Steve, and grabbing the biggest piece of pizza left in the box. Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, she had to fly out to the Hague on short notice for some work thing. But she says hi,” Sam says with a shrug. “But. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then—?” Bucky asks, before glancing at Steve.

“You know how Nick’s been fighting with Jameson to get me on full-time?” Steve asks, adjusting his thick-rimmed black glasses, a little nervously. 

Bucky nearly drops his slice of pizza. “No way.”

Steve grins. “Yep.”

“Steve!” Bucky exclaims, “I can’t believe he got you the job!”

The way that Steve _lights up_ makes Bucky’s heart ache, just a little bit, and in just the best of ways. “Why else would I have called Sam up here?”

Sam snorts. “Sure as hell wouldn’t’ve come up for the pizza alone.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, “When do you start?”

“Monday,” Steve says, barely able to contain himself. “I’m gonna be doing illustrations for the Sunday lifestyle sections, obituary illustrations for rich folks who want a headshot, and whatever they need whenever they need a features illustration.” 

“Fuck. Congrats, Steve. You deserve it,” Bucky says, his voice full of earnest adoration.

“You really do,” Sam adds, “I mean, shit. If anyone does, it’s you.” 

“Thanks,” Steve says, “I’m probably gonna try to get a couple illustrations of Wolf-Spider done this weekend, you know. Just to have them done ahead of time.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, trying not to tip his hand. “Well, that’s a good idea.”

“Hey, how much does that guy keep the writers at the Bugle busy?” Sam asks. “It’s like every other Tweet I see from them is about the new vigilante in New York, or something.” 

Steve shrugs. “Look, I haven’t had to take down Nazi street gang stickers ever since he showed up, and he pisses off the cops, so, you know he’s a good guy. So, you know. I can’t complain.”

Bucky feels far too uncomfortable to add anything to their conversation. A silence passes, a beat, a much-loved lull in conversation, Bucky grabs a beer from the pack next to the pizzas—just _barely_ cool enough not to be lukewarm—and cracks open the top, trying to recover in the silence.

“Plus, he’s got a _great_ ass,” Steve says suddenly, to which Bucky nearly chokes on his drink.

“What?” Bucky asks, through coughs.

“What do you mean, _what,_ it’s pretty straightforward, I think, he’s got a great ass!” Steve repeats, trying very, very hard not to keep a straight face.

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” Bucky says, and Bucky Barnes is not—has never been—a blusher. But he can feel himself turning an embarrassing shade of pink as they continue to speak.

“We’ve all seen him. I’ll bet you dollars-to-donuts that he looks incredible under that suit.”

“Steve, I’m all for your horny little anarchist escapades, and you know that. But this might be a bridge too far,” Sam says, frowning. “I mean. What proof do you have of _any_ of that?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll say it again. Have. You. _Seen._ That ass?”

Bucky can barely believe this is happening to him. Meanwhile, Sam, deep in contemplation, makes a face. “I dunno, man. I mean. What if he’s got a fucked-up face? Like, what if he’s a man-spider?”

“That’s ridiculous. If he had a fucked-up spider face, we’d be able to tell.”

“No, we _wouldn’t_ , Steve! That’s the entire plot of the Predator movies!”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You _know_ that’s not the plot of the Predator movies.”

“Whatever. Why would he call himself Wolf-Spider if he doesn’t look like a spider? And he’s only got two legs, so,” Sam says, levelling Steve a look. “You know.”

“He has _goggles._ For _human eyes._ ”

“He probably has _too many_ human eyes!” Sam exclaims, throwing his hands up.

“Nah, he has two. Two beautiful, perfect human eyes,” Steve says, a little bit dreamily.

“You’re ridiculous, Steve,” Sam groans. He then follows up with, “You think he shoots webs out of his ass?”

“Nope! No, he does not,” Bucky cuts in, perhaps against his better instincts. Steve nods at him, and Bucky has to turn away. Maybe he can blame the blush on the alcohol—not that _any_ alcohol has done anything for him, not since he got bitten.

“Oh, so now you’re a vigilante man-spider expert, Barnes?”

“I—” Bucky starts, “Look, maybe it’s a wild guess, I don’t have any more information about the guy than either of you, but I’m almost _completely sure_ that he doesn’t shoot webs outta his ass.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “You two are nasty.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to throw his hands up, with that. “I never said I wanted to fuck him!”

“Speak for yourself,” Steve murmurs, taking a sip from his beer. Sam rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe I took the fucking Amtrak for this.”

“Well, you did,” Bucky says. “So now you’re stuck with us.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I could be stuck with worse people,” Sam says, fondly. “Spider-fuckers and all.”

**\---**

After that night, Bucky considers making it clear that Wolf-Spider is just a regular—albeit superpowered—human man. He doesn’t, of course. Beyond Shuri reminding him that it’s a _terrible goddamn idea_ because _the internet_ , for one, Bucky isn’t sure he’s ready to be any less anonymous—any less _exposed_ than he already is.

As much as it would make telling Steve easier. Because he _would_ be telling Steve, probably. Just—when the time was right. And the time was not right. Not yet, anyway. Not when he didn’t have a guaranteed way to keep Steve safe, if he told him. Not when Steve was prone to vigilante justice _himself,_ already.

Not when he couldn’t even admit to Steve that he was in love with him. 

It’s the early hours of the morning when Bucky arrives home, which is why it’s surprising that the living room lights are still on when he comes in. What’s more surprising is that Steve is awake, _and_ he’s bleeding from the face. 

“Steve, holy shit,” Bucky gasps, dropping his duffel bag at the door. Steve looks like he’s been through hell, or at the very least, nine rounds with someone far above his weight class. The wad of paper towels that he’s holding are rust-red with blood, and when Steve removes them, Bucky can see he’s sporting a hell of a nosebleed and split lip, to match.

“I’m fine,” Steve manages, even though he _very much is not._ Bucky grabs the box that they keep the first-aid kit in, and makes his way back to Steve, without a word.

“Here,” Bucky says, “For when the bleeding stops. I’ll get you a washcloth and some warm water.”

Steve huffs, but as Bucky makes his way to the bathroom, he can swear he hears a mumbled, _Thanks, Buck._

The bleeding stops soon after that, and Steve settles on the couch, Bucky crouching in front of him, carefully, carefully, dabbing hydrogen peroxide on Steve’s cuts.

“It was stupid, I know,” Steve says, out of nowhere.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” Bucky says, gently.

“I just—these _kids._ They were kids, yeah, but they were bullies, too. And they were terrorizing this little queer kid. Had ‘em in a corner. I used to be that little queer kid, Buck. I couldn’t _not_ do something.”

“I know, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, “I know. You couldn’t just walk away from that one.”

“Stupid, I know. And kinda sad. But—I had to take that hit, I had to let that kid get away. I had to.”

They sit there in silence, as Bucky continues patching Steve up, the best he can. They’ve done this dance before; Steve gets beat up, Bucky pulls him out, or, when he can’t, he cleans him up. But that doesn’t ever make it any easier. Not even newfound superpowers can do that.

“Hey,” Bucky says, as he wipes the last of the blood from Steve’s face, his voice gentle. “I know it’s late but—you wanna watch a movie?”

Steve blinks. “And—and get some takeout?”

“Even better,” Bucky says, with a smile. “You relax, go and pick out the movie. Lemme call the regular place. They should still be open. We can even get extra eggrolls, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, with a nod. “I’d—I’d like that.”

They settle down on the couch, in their respective, familiar spots. They don’t fit the same, not now that Bucky takes up so much more space, but it’s almost nicer, given that they end up pressed together so close. It’s so nice, even, that after they finish dinner, after Bucky tears through enough lo mein to feed a family of four and they manage to take the piss out of some awful, classic ‘80s movie, Steve falls asleep, his head resting comfortably against Bucky’s chest.

It would have been easy enough to shake Steve awake, to put friendly distance in between the both of them. But the thing is—Bucky doesn’t want to. He _wants_ to have that closeness, that intimacy.

And one day, he’ll tell Steve he wants it. He’ll put everything— _everything_ —on the table. But not just yet. 

“Hey, bud,” Bucky says, once the credits are done rolling, and the next movie starts autoplaying. It pains him to say that, as much as he knew he had to. He could have sat there, with Steve resting his head on his chest, until the heat death of the universe. “Wake up.”

“Mm—?” Steve murmurs, slowly, slowly blinking awake. “Wha?”

“You fell asleep, Stevie. Missed the whole last half of the movie.”

“Ugh. ‘M sorry, Buck.”

“It’s okay. It’s been a long day,” Bucky says. “But let’s get you in bed. You know your back’s gonna act up if you sleep on the couch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, stifling a yawn, “Okay. Let’s go.”

He stands with a stretch, a little sliver of pale, freckled skin peeking out from underneath his t-shirt as he does so. Bucky tries not to hyperfocus on this, tries not to count the freckles between the hem of Steve’s t-shirt and the waistband of his underwear. Far too aware of himself, and his body, and all the space it takes up, Bucky shifts, standing at a slouch and shoving his hands in his pockets, as he follows Steve out of the living room.

“We’ll clean up tomorrow morning,” Steve mumbles, sleep clearly calling him, as Bucky follows him into the hallway.

“Sounds good,” Bucky says, as he passes Steve, standing at the door to his room—still sitting a little crooked, from where their landlord Clint tried to fix it, but functional now, at least. “Sleep well, Stevie.”

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise we’ll do this again?”

“Yeah, yeah, Steve. Of course,” Bucky says. “Why?”

“You’ve just been coming home late a lot, is all. And I—I dunno. I missed this.”

“Stark likes keeping us busy,” Bucky says with a shrug, and to his credit, it’s not like he’s lying to Steve. It’s just that he’s only telling him half the truth.

“Yeah, I get it,” Steve says with a shrug. “Oh, and Buck—?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s—I, uh. Actually—forget it,” Steve replies, “But we should—we should have movie night again soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, Steve,” is what Bucky settles on, but it’s not enough. Not when he wishes he could have said, _Anything for you._

“Alright. Great,” Steve says. “Good night, Buck.”

“Good night, Stevie.”

**\---**

Bucky extends his patrol to Brooklyn after that night.

It keeps him busy, alternating his patrol between Manhattan and Brooklyn, but it also gives him a chance to be closer to home, closer to the community that raised him.

That, and it gives him another chance to keep Steve _safe._

It’s a week and a half into the new Brooklyn beat when Bucky has to pull Steve out of a fight. Honestly, Bucky is surprised that they were both able to go _that long_ without running into each other. Steve is squaring up against two men, his fists in that familiar defensive stance, the same stance that Ma Rogers taught the both of them, all those years ago. The men beating up on Steve look like they’re coming from the bar down the street, and fit the image of douchey, young-money transplants to a _tee._ They’re average height and build, maybe a little fitter than most, but against Steve, there’s _no way_ it’s a fair fight. Especially with two against one. 

Bucky drops down from the rooftop, right between Steve and the two guys. They gawk for a second, and Bucky takes that moment to punch their _fucking lights out._ The both of them drop like a stack of bricks, and Bucky webs them up, leaving them to lick their wounds in the morning. 

He might not have been a charismatic superhero, but he was an effective one.

“Hey,” Bucky says, turning to Steve. He lowers his voice a few octaves, hoping that maybe, just _maybe,_ Steve won’t notice that it’s _him_. “Are you okay?”

Steve looks him up and down, and never before has Bucky been so grateful of the anonymity of his mask. There’s an awe in Steve’s eye that Bucky had only ever _dreamed_ of before. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t do anything for him.

“Yeah, I, uh—I’m okay,” Steve says, his glasses askew, just _so_.

“Do you need someone to take you home?” Bucky asks.

“I—uh, nah, I’m—as much as I’d—I. No. I’m. I’m good,” Steve stammers, “Uh. Thanks, though.”

“Okay then,” Bucky says, making his way back up to the rooftop, climbing the exposed brick with ease. “Stay safe. Stay outta back alleys.”

Was he showing off for Steve? He wasn’t intending it. But the way Steve’s eyes graze over him, adoringly, _longingly, even_ , makes a little bit of showmanship fine, in Bucky’s mind.

“Can’t make any promises,” Steve says, with a grin. Because anonymous or not, Bucky could never stop Steve.

**\---**

It’s not every night that Bucky has to get Steve out of a sticky situation, but it becomes far, far more frequent. If he didn’t know better, Bucky would think that Steve does it on _purpose._

It’s so frequent, that if he hadn’t known Steve before, Bucky would have found himself getting charmed by Steve. Frustrating as it was, Bucky found himself falling in love with Steve, again and again and again, each time he pulled him out of some righteous fistfight. 

“I had ‘em on the ropes this time,” Steve says, this time, as Bucky looks him over. He grins up at Bucky with that perfect, pearlescent grin, and as much as he doesn’t _want_ to be charmed, Bucky is.

“Sure you did,” Bucky says, and he produces a couple band-aids and alcohol wipes from of the pockets on his tac pants. If someone were to ask, he didn’t carry them _exclusively_ for Steve. But he definitely used them more in Brooklyn than he did in Manhattan. Bucky hands both the wipes and band-aids to Steve, who takes them, smirking up at Bucky—at _Wolf-Spider_ —wordlessly. “What was it this time?”

“He tried to slip something into his date’s drink,” Steve says, wincing as he dabs the gash on his nose with an alcohol wipe. “Called him out for it. He called me a fag, and I told him, _I might be a fag but I’m not a fuckin’ rapist._ I called the girl a Lyft, waited with her outside, and after she was gone, he came outside, stinkin’ of whiskey and wanting to throw hands.”

“And you couldn’t just walk away, huh.”

Steve pauses, a spark of _something_ flashing across his features. It’s gone as quick as it appears, but he shrugs, smiling that coy little smile, even still. “You know, a friend of mine says, _Stevie, you’ve gotta be the bigger man,_ but lemme tell you, Wolf-Spider, I’m five-foot-four _exactly._ It’s not exactly something I’m built for.”

“You should listen to him,” Bucky says, as he makes his way back into the shadows of the city.

“Yeah, yeah. See you later, Wolf-Spider.”

**\---**

A couple days later, Bucky comes home to Steve cooking. It feels painfully domestic, and for a minute, Bucky stands in the doorway, something in his heart going all _soft._

“Hey,” Steve says, “I’m making Ma’s beef stew.”

“Yum,” Bucky says, setting down his duffel bag and padding his way into the kitchen. “Need help?”

“Sure, if you’re offering. I’ll chop the vegetables, you can sautee them.”

“Great,” Bucky says, and he rolls his hair tie down his wrist, putting his hair up, one-handedly. 

“You know, I never noticed this before, but you put your hair up just like Wolf-Spider does,” Steve says, smiling at Bucky from where he’s cutting up vegetables. Bucky freezes, for a fraction of a second, before laughing it off.

“Yeah, and _every other guy in Brooklyn,_ ” he manages, with a grin, deflecting like a fucking _champ._ Steve shrugs.

“Maybe,” is all Steve says, and somehow, Bucky knows that’s not the end of it. He makes a mental note for the next time he runs into Steve, while wearing the mask—double-check to make sure he pulls off the Wolf-Spider voice, and _seamlessly._

**\---**

The next time Bucky saves Steve, it isn’t as simple as beating ass and tsk-tsking and Steve’s dangerous inability to stay out of fights.

The next time Bucky saves Steve, he has to make a _tactical retreat._

With a quickness that only a superhuman could possess, Bucky grabs Steve by the waist, right in between the assailant’s punches, bouncing between alleyway walls as he does so. Right before he makes his way to the roof, Bucky shoots a little bit of web fluid at the guy—a feat, with a squirming, pissed-off Steve under his arm—pinning him to the piss-stained alley walls until daybreak.

Once he’s far away enough that he knows they won’t be found, Bucky drops back to street-level, gently setting Steve down in the middle of a nice, cozy park. Bucky can see it forming on Steve’s lips even through the hazy tint of his goggles, the beginnings of a _hey, buddy, who fuckin’ gave you the right to touch me like that,_ or something roughly equivalent. But he doesn’t care. Steve is running into fights far, far too big for _Bucky_ to handle on his own, even with his brand-new superhuman strength and healing factor and spider-sense. There’s no way Steve can keep running into this head-on. Bucky can’t let him.

“That’s the governor’s kid, Steve. He has the full weight of the city’s most-powerful union behind him, and you’ve got _me._ You’re running up against something that even _I_ can’t protect you from. You don’t need to stop doing what you’re doing, but I _do_ need you to please, please, just _pick your battles more carefully._ For fuck’s sake, Steve, stop taking _every fight and running with it._ ”

Steve stares at him, jaw set, fists clenched, all _five-foot-four-exactly_ of him looking a hellion; looking _defiant._ That defiance, that unbreakability, was both what Bucky loved in Steve, but it also made his life very, very hard. And there was no way that Steve would change, not immediately. But the least Bucky could do was _ask._

“Just—” Bucky starts, again, his voice going softer. “Please, Steve. Please.”

“Fine. Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Beneath his mask, Bucky smiles an exasperated smile. “You’d better not.”

**\---**

A few days later, right at the beginning of patrol, Steve sends Bucky a text.

> STEVE [7:52 PM]: Come home early if you can. I have something to show you.

And, because Bucky was willing to do so, so much for Steve—he does.

**\---**

When he gets home, Bucky doesn’t know what to expect. Their apartment is dark, the coffee table empty, save for a projector positioned carefully in the middle. 

“Steve?” Bucky starts, setting down his gym bag in its usual spot, by the couch. “What is this?”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve starts, dressed like he’s about to give a business pitch. He looks _good,_ and Bucky has to tell his brain to _cool it._ “Sit down.”

“Okay,” Bucky starts, “I—why are you wearing a blazer? When did you _get_ a blazer?”

Steve doesn’t answer that, instead, looking at Bucky very, very seriously. “I’m gonna show you something. But you’ve gotta promise you’re not gonna walk out, you’re not gonna interrupt, and you’re not gonna roll your eyes. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says, feeling a little unnerved. Not in danger—no, his body would have alerted him to that if he was. But something isn’t _right,_ nonetheless. “What is this?”

“Buck, please. I just—I need you to promise me you’ll sit down and shut up throughout this, okay.”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky starts, hesitant, but he does as Steve says, nonetheless. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath, and starting, of all things, a PowerPoint.

One wherein the title slide reads, _Definitive Proof that James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is Wolf-Spider: An Investigation._

__

Well, _fuck._

**\---**

Steve’s PowerPoint is just as long as it is thorough. There are side-by-side photo comparisons, calendar-and-sighting comparisons, news reports, even transcribed audio from the time Bucky accidentally butt-dialed Steve while out on patrol. To an outsider, it would be a work of folly, a funny little joke, or a manic conspiracy theory, at best.

But to Bucky—and clearly, to Steve—it’s an indictment

“Now, I need you to promise me one more thing, Bucky,” Steve says, once he finally gets to the final slide. He’s standing ramrod straight, all five-foot-four of him sharp and towering and lionesque. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to promise me, you’re not gonna lie.”

“I—” Bucky starts, though he doesn’t know where his words are going, not from there. “You know—”

“ _Promise_ me, Buck.”

Bucky sighs. “I promise.”

“Tell it to me straight,” Steve murmurs, slowly, carefully, as if he, too, is bracing himself for a response. As if he’s steeling himself for something they both already know the answer to. “Are you Wolf-Spider, or not?”

And that was it. There was no turning away from Steve. The shadows and forgotten places of all of New York City couldn’t protect Bucky. Not now.

Best thing he could do—the only thing he could do—was confront the truth, head-on.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and, somehow, he doesn’t feel as bad saying it as he thought he would. He still feels like he’s sinking. But he does not yet feel like he’s drowning. “Yeah, Steve. I am.” 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Steve asks, his voice flat—and clearly struggling to be.

“I—” Bucky starts.

“You weren’t, were you?” Steve cuts in, before Bucky can finish. If he were ever going to finish. Steve sounds equal parts hurt and angry. The fire behind his eyes, this time, at least, is different from when he’s in a fight—in fact, it’s hardly there at all. The look behind Steve’s eyes right now are less a wildfire and more the embers of a housefire—devastating, all-encompassing, and lost. “Why, Bucky? I—you’re my best friend. I _trust_ you.”

“Steve, this isn’t personal—”

“Of course, it’s _fucking personal,_ okay, Buck? You’re my _best friend,_ of course it’s going to be personal,” Steve manages, his voice hitching up in volume, if only slightly. “It’s _fucking personal_ because you just sat there while I went on about how much I want to fuck you!”

Bucky tucks his hair behind his right ear, a nervous tic he never really outgrew. Steve’s eyes dart to Bucky’s jawline, briefly, but the set of his own jaw remains the same.

“Look, I—I know I’ve been keeping a lot from you. And—it was a mistake. I should have been more honest with you, this whole time. And I’m sorry for that. I—I really, really am. But the truth is,” Bucky says, taking a deep breath. If this is what it took for him to admit the deepest, most-intimate secrets of himself to Steve, well. He might as well put everything on the table, now that he was found out. “I—I love you, Steve, okay. I love you. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“You,” Steve spits out, “You _asshole_.”

Bucky was not expecting that. For the first time since acquiring his new body, Bucky feels _weak._ He feels _broken._

For what it’s worth, Steve does not look any happier. As he looks up at Bucky, his big blue eyes are wide, and they are _angry._ “How fucking _dare_ you.”

“I—I’m sorry,” is what comes out of Bucky’s mouth, the words barely managing to squeak out, “I—what do you mean?”

“You’re trying to change the subject,” Steve manages, “You’re trying to make this not about the fact that you’ve been hiding things from me.”

“I’m not!”

“Are you, Buck? Because how the fuck am I supposed to know when you’re lying to me or not, when you’ve _clearly_ been lying to me this _whole goddamn time?”_

“I—Steve, I’m sorry, I just—” Bucky starts, and it sounds stupid, as he says it, he knows. But as long as he was being honest with Steve, he might as well have told the full truth. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Steve manages a bitter little laugh. “Didn’t fuckin’ work, that’s for sure.”

They stew in silence after that, neither wanting to say another word; Bucky, because he doesn’t want to push Steve away more than he already had. But it was _his_ silence that prompted this. _His_ silence that broke them both. It was his responsibility to make things right. And so he stands, making his way over to Steve, closing the gap between Steve and himself. 

“I want to make this better,” is what Bucky says, breaking that silence ever-gently. There are tears welling up in Steve’s eyes, and he does not put up a fight, not when Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his own. “How can I make this better?”

“Look me in the eye, and _tell me the truth_ ,” Steve grits out, doing a very, very good job at keeping his cool. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, his voice dropping down, a low, gentle rumble in his chest—the Wolf-Spider voice, a voice that he was increasingly becoming comfortable with as _his own._ “I’m Wolf-Spider. I’m also Bucky Barnes. I’m your best friend, I’m an idiot, most of all, for hurting you, and—if you’ll let me—I’m yours. Only yours. I swear to you, Steve. But that’s all I am. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, for doing so much to keep it from you.”

“—fuck, Barnes,” Steve breathes. All that anger, all that spitfire energy, completely deflates, as he pulls Bucky in closer, wrapping his bony, familiar arms tight around Bucky’s broad frame. They stand there in silence, Steve’s face pressed up against Bucky’s shoulder, his breaths coming out in wet, muffled shudders. 

“I’m—I’m sorry for lying to you,” Bucky repeats. He would repeat it a hundred more times, a million more times, a billion more times, however many times he needed to make things right.

“You’d better fucking be,” Steve murmurs, his voice half-muffled against Bucky’s chest.

They don’t speak any more than that for some time, standing there, in silence, save for the whirr of the projector fan.

“No more secrets, Barnes,” Steve says, eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me?”

“I promise you,” Bucky says, nosing against the crown of Steve’s head. Couldn’t keep ‘em anymore, even if I wanted to, punk. Your clever little ass’ll figure it out before I’m even out the gate.”

Steve pulls back a little to look up at Bucky, the remnants of tears having smudged his glasses. “You really think I’m clever?”

“You’re just as clever as you are pretty,” Bucky murmurs, low, and _oh,_ the way Steve blushes at that is a reward in and of itself. “Which is to say, you drive me fucking _wild,_ Rogers.”

“Fuck, Barnes,” Steve breathes, looking away, “Cool it with the Wolf-Spider voice, okay?”

He didn’t even realize he was still doing it, not initially, but now that it’s got Steve going, there’s no way Bucky is going to pull back. “ _This voice, you mean?_ ”

The noise that Steve lets out is like catnip to Bucky. Whatever Steve asks, he’ll do, so long as Steve will _keep making those beautiful, magical little noises._ Good thing Steve tells him _exactly_ what to do next.

“Unless you’re gonna fuck me, I need you to go back to your regular register, Barnes.”

“Yeah? You been fantasizing about fucking Wolf-Spider, Rogers? I know you’ve been wondering what’s under the suit.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

Bucky manages to slip his hand under the collar of Steve’s blazer, pulling the deep navy fabric off slowly, slowly. Steve lets out a little gasp as Bucky’s fingers graze his neck, and Bucky can feel Steve’s long, delicate fingers working at his fly.

“You want this, Rogers?” Bucky murmurs, soft enough that it’s barely audible over the whirr of the projector fan. He sets the blazer down gently on the couch, and presses his hips against Steve’s, reveling in the way Steve’s lips part when he lets out another soft, gentle little gasp.

“I want you, Buck,” Steve says, “Wanted you for _so long_.”

And that’s the only thing Bucky needed to hear. He scoops up Steve in his arm quickly, earning a surprised little _oh!_ from Steve, carrying him off to his bedroom and carefully, carefully setting him down on the bed.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, just another apology of many deserved in the night. “Was that too rough?”

“That was just rough enough,” Steve says, grinning up at Bucky, glasses crooked and looking _hungry._

“So, you won’t mind if I do this, then?” Bucky murmurs, tracing his fingers along Steve’s jawline, down his neck, and then, in one easy, seamless motion, ripping Steve’s nice button-down open like it’s made of tissue paper.

“ _Fuck, Barnes,_ ” Steve manages, and before Bucky can say anything, Steve is pulling Bucky in by the t-shirt and kissing him sloppily, desperately. They move in tandem, and move entirely on instinct, after that. Steve pulls Bucky’s shirt off with an almost-trembling desperation, spending a good ten seconds just _staring_ at Bucky’s pecs. Together, they strip down to their skins, exploring parts of each other that—in all their years knowing one another—were so unfamiliar, so _new_ to the both of them.

Steve helps Bucky slick him up, covering his and Bucky’s fingers with globs of lube, and fingering himself all nice and easy, before letting Bucky take the reins. It almost breaks Bucky, seeing Steve propped up on his knees like that, dripping precum and fingering himself, but he still manages to work Steve open slow, cloyingly slow, earning desperate, muffled noises until Steve is _begging, pleading,_ for Bucky to fuck him.

“You want this, Stevie?” Bucky asks, his voice seemingly _stuck_ in the Wolf-Spider register. Steve’s whole body shudders, and Bucky thinks he sees him nodding. “You want my big cock?”

“Yes, Buck, _please._ I—I _need_ you,” Steve manages, and Bucky obliges, pushing into Steve, the white-hot feeling of Steve’s hole fucking _intoxicating_ to Bucky. Steve keens, and Bucky starts moving, his right hand a vise, an anchor, as he bears down into Steve.

“Christ, Stevie. You’re so fucking tight, Stevie,” Bucky starts, the words just spilling out of him, clunky and awkward and unfiltered. “God, baby, you feel so good. Can’t believe we waited this fucking long to do this.”

Underneath him, Steve groans, and Bucky drills into him harder, earning a beautiful little noise in the process. “More, Buck—please. Please, Bucky, please, _please._ ”

“Yeah? You need more of this? You need more of my cock, baby?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky— _God, yes,”_ Steve moans, his entire body flushed the pretty shade of pink as Bucky rails him, harder, deeper, rougher, just as Steve asked.

“You like that, yeah?” Bucky murmurs, and Steve shudders, his perfect little arched posture beginning to slip as he shifts, moving to get Bucky deeper, _deeper_ within him. 

“Yeah, _oh, fuck—Christ alive,_ Bucky, _please—_ ”

Somehow, just like the rush of fighting, just like the rush of kicking ass, Bucky found himself lost in the buzz, in the white-hot focus, of fucking Steve. As he pounds his hips against Steve’s hole, he _loses himself,_ almost entirely, in some sort of carnal rush, in that feral _drop._ Bucky shifts, just so, and Steve practically _screams,_ in turn, tightening and clenching his hole against Bucky’s cock.

“There—right there. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop. Fuck—fuck, Bucky, it’s so much—” Steve groans, his voice sounding, somehow, _tight,_ “You’re so much—I’m close, I think I’m close—”

Bucky _growls_ and pistons into Steve, the world narrowing down into a singularity; into the primal, desperate goal of _coming in Steve._ Bucky fucks Steve so hard, burying his cock so, so _fucking_ deep that any harder, he’s _convinced_ he’d break him. Whatever the opposite of his _super-anxiety_ is, he’s fallen into it, and he never wants to pull back out.

He can feel Steve quickly, desperately tugging himself off underneath him, and he, too, knows he’s close. Bucky’s entire body is electric as he thrusts, his core tightening dangerously, and then he’s gone, spilling his load in Steve, finally, finally, _finally._

“Yes, _yes, fuck_ —” Steve groans, and he moans, choked-out and small and so, so fucking _good._

Bucky pulls out of Steve, somehow managing to slump onto the spot on the mattress next to him. Steve manages a hazy little smile at him, and tries to kiss him, sloppy as earlier, as Bucky pulls him close.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve murmurs, tucking himself against Bucky’s chest, not unlike that night, all those months ago.

“Yeah, baby?” Bucky asks. 

Steve looks up at him and smiles, still looking fucked-out and sloppy, even as he speaks: “You’re not gonna eat me now, are you?”

“Christ,” Bucky laughs, and he kisses Steve, deeper and somehow, even more intimate than before. 

**\---**

Bucky’s patrol does not change after that.

His nights are still long, split between Manhattan and Brooklyn, with Stark Industries acting as his home base, more or less.

The only difference is that patrol doesn’t interfere with date night—which, other than shifting from Thursday to Friday, only changes in that it becomes _official._

**\---**

A few months after sharing his secret with Steve, Bucky’s night is just starting when he’s hit, once again, with the unexpected. Right as he’s about to go on patrol—between suiting up and putting on his arm—Bucky runs into, of all people, Steve.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem, if it weren’t for the fact Steve wasn’t supposed to be at Stark Industries. _Legally._

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks, with a frown, “Who let you in here?”

“I did,” says Shuri, from the fancy coffee station across the workshop.

“You know he’s not supposed to be in here, right?” Bucky asks, “Ever since, you know. The incident?”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be climbing up walls, either, but look at where we are,” Steve says, smirking.

Bucky frowns, somehow, even deeper. “Steve—”

“Hey. Relax, Barnes,” Shuri says, making her way over to her desk, stirring her coffee in a way that makes it seem like she _knows_ something. “Let your guy speak.”

Hesitant as he might have been—it couldn’t have been anything _too_ bad. The anxiety he felt, after all, was only regular, human anxiety. “Okay. Steve?”

“Well, uh. I had this idea. So, I did something for you. I want you to see,” Steve says, leading Bucky over to his _own desk._ Bucky didn’t know what to expect; at first, he couldn’t begin to think what was so urgent that Steve had to go all the way to Stark Industries.

And then, he understood immediately.

On Bucky’s desk was the arm—its metal edges accented with a deep red, each accent leading, like rivulets, like ravines, up to a meticulously-painted red star on the outer shoulder. The star, too, was accented: nestled in the field of red was a lone silhouette, a black spider, four of its legs pointing upward, and four pointing down. It was simple, but beautiful; not much at all, but so, so much, at the same time.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, his voice breaking, just a little. “Did you do this?”

“I mean—” Steve starts, pushing his glasses up awkwardly, bashfully. “Shuri helped me in formulating a paint that would stick to the vibranium alloy, but—yeah. I, uh. I did.”

Bucky slots the arm on, and it feels no different than it did the day before, or the previous week, or _ever,_ but at the same time, somehow, it felt _wholly new._

“Thank you,” Bucky says, turning to Shuri. “Both of you.”

Shuri dabs at her eyes and shakes her head. “Really, it was his idea.”

Even in the low, bluish light, it’s clear that Steve is blushing. With his heart full and his eyes welling with happy tears, Bucky moves to give Steve a thank you by other means, pulling Steve in close, kissing him gently, lovingly, _deeply._ Steve leans up into the kiss, his entire body going slack against Bucky’s. Maybe he might have been imagining it, but against his own chest, Bucky can swear he feels Steve’s heartbeat.

They have to break away eventually, and when they do, Steve is still, very clearly, and very strongly, _blushing._

“Wow,” Bucky says, grinning down at him like they’re schoolkids.

“Wow, yourself,” Steve says, nudging Bucky.

“Now, come on, loverboys,” Shuri says, sounding sappy, even still. “Especially you, Bucky. You’re gonna be late.”

“Right,” Bucky says, and he finishes suiting up, not sparing a second to look away from Steve. Once fully-suited, he makes his way to the balcony—that fateful spot where, only months ago, his life changed entirely; where, thanks to his misplaced good intentions, Bucky became—unwittingly but not unwillingly—not only _a_ vigilante, but of his kind, the _one and only._

“Well,” Bucky says, right up against the edge of the dark. “See you at home.”

Steve smiles, the sweetest little grin in all of New York City.

“Catch you later, Wolf-Spider.”

**Author's Note:**

> woof, this was a sprint. with this work, i wanted to challenge myself to (1) keep this under 10k words, and (2) have it up and posted by saturday, because of related art. obviously, i failed at both, if only slightly. anyway, i love spidersonas, and in thinking about spidersonas, i accidentally made bucky a spidersona, so one thing led to another, and, well. here we are. 
> 
> i have a lot more ideas about this particular universe than i have included in here (things about hydra, and stark industries, and the spider, and rough equivalents of spider-man villains), so i'm open to playing with those in the future. but for now, i've got enough fic things on my plate (and real life things on top of those) to leave this as it is. 
> 
> some notes: 
> 
> \- this is very much a collaborative work, and i owe much of the dialogue (and the beautiful powerpoint slide) to [emily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier). seriously, i owe her so much for both beta reading and practically writing part of this fic. she's writing a full(ish) version of steve's powerpoint. that's coming soon.  
> \- i also owe much of this work to [goddessofpredators](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofpredators), who did!! art!! oh my gosh i still can't believe it. i'm buzzing over it. like a honeybee.  
> \- since it [came up on twitter](https://twitter.com/aka_spacedog/status/1078316679917174784), it's intentional that he's named after the [male equivalent of the black widow program](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Niko_Constantin_\(Earth-616\)). i wanted to throw back to the comics, at least, a little bit.  
> \- that, and wolf spiders are _fuckdamn huge_ and you know. beefy bucky 2kforever.  
> \- oh, right, speaking of. i tried to keep (kinda) true to the [wolf spiders' modes of hunting so. that's something!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_spider#Description) (link has spiders in it by the way in case that's something you're not into).  
> \- [ziggy stardust and the spiders from mars](https://genius.com/David-bowie-ziggy-stardust-lyrics) isn't actually about any spiders, unlike i thought up until i actually listened to that album as an adult, but it falls in line with both stark's taste in music, AND the space(ish) feel of [the ales kot run on bucky barnes](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23546815-bucky-barnes), which held many promises but all in all was very disappointing in fulfilling its promises of pushing bucky into interesting, radical territory, space-wife aside (and which i have now referenced in two!! 2!! fics).  
> \- steve powerpointing in a blazer is em's idea but it is also, really, [brian david gilbert's fault](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STFAzuCxAXE), when it comes down to it. 
> 
> i think that's it? i'm not sure my brain feels tired and i have to read three more chapters of political theory before tomorrow oops lmao. anyway, catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/aka_spacedog) or [tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/), and keep an eye out for a full(ish) version of steve's powerpoint, to be released...soonish.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Wolf-Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341070) by [Summer-Soldier-art (Goddessofpredators)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Summer-Soldier-art)




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